


On Sentiment

by baronvonehren



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, commission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-23
Updated: 2012-10-23
Packaged: 2017-11-16 22:00:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/544291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baronvonehren/pseuds/baronvonehren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A newly unified Germany is greeted by a thoroughly shamed France.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Sentiment

**Author's Note:**

> This is commission fill for a very patient, very understanding client. Thank you for your extreme patience!

"May I sit here?" Asked the Frenchman, in less than perfect German.

He nervously fidgeted with a button on his jacket.

"No." The German responded, not bothering to look up from his novel.

Their relationship, especially as of late, was strained. France was faced with overwhelming military defeat while Germany reconsolidated old lands and became—once again—an empire.

The Frenchman shifted from foot-to-foot uncomfortably and pulled out the chair anyway. "You are not pleased to see me then, Ludwig?" He deposited his weight in the chair and his boots on the table.

"No." Ludwig responded, clinically, turning a page. His blond hair laid clipped queerly short. Francis was less than impressed. He was even less impressed by the Raupenhelm that sat between them.

A silence hung between them that was only broken by the sound of Ludwig's page-turning.

"Are you sure? How can you possibly not be pleased to see me?" He brushed back the hair from his brow, still annoyingly short. Only a fraction of it could be pulled up into a loose queue.

Ludwig snorted but doesn't bother to dignify him with a response. His ego was monstrous as ever, even with his armies defeated.

"Why do you wear that ugly thing?"

He looked up from his book, momentarily. "Why do you still wear that tschako?"

"I don't. You don't see a schako here, do you?" He brushed away his hair again and slouched in his seat in a way that might have come off as appealing if the German wasn't so prim and proper.

The German eyed him, shrugged and returned to his reading.

"The question is: why hasn't your brother pushed the pointy-hat on you yet?"

Ludwig leveled him with a confused stare, bridging the lingual gap. "Pickelhaube." The German blandly corrected, eyes rolling to the heavens as if wishing God would strike him dead.

"Ah yes, the pointy-hat your brother wears. Why haven't you adopted that, if you're so fond of his uniform?"

The German sighed, his wall-of-a-brow knit in exasperation. "I'm not."

"Oh? Well, it suits you well." 

The German was impervious to his flirting. He probably didn't know what flirting was to begin with. The prospect baffled Francis.

"Whatever happened to us, Ludwig? We used to be so close." Francis slumped further in his chair, his boots inching closer to Ludwig's ghastly helmet.

"You're uncomfortably close now."

“No, if I were--.”

They were doomed, or at least, Ludwig was doomed, to be interrupted.

“Boffke!”

It was Ludwig's turn to sink into the seat. He lifted the book higher to conceal his face. 

“Ah, Gilbert!” The Frenchman stood in response and warmly welcomed him.

“Not even a 'hello' for me? How disrespectful!” The Prussian pulled over a chair from a nearby table. “You act as though I don't exist! Don't be like that, it's queer!”

There was an uncomfortable silence as Francis and Ludwig noted that he was technically dissolved.

Gilbert broke it, in his usual annoying nature. “What are you reading?”

“Goethe.” The German grunted. That was a lie, he wasn't reading anything right now. It's a bit hard to read when you're having a conversation with two people.

“Goethe?” Gilbert crowed, “who taught you to read?” 

There was no polite way of saying 'well, certainly not you', so Ludwig said it, out-right. “Well, certainly not you.”

The Frenchman snorted in a way that seemed to mock his entire language.

“I mean that,” the German rumbled, “affectionately.”

“That I can't read?” The Prussian asked, looking mortally wounded by the near-truth.

“He never said that,” the Frenchman broke in, “he simply said that you didn't teach him to read. Which is true, isn't it? He learned from the best.” The Frenchman obviously attributed it to himself.

Ludwig was having a hard time ignoring them both. Ignoring the Frenchman was easy enough, but his brother had a louder voice.

He did his best to ignore their idle chit-chat until he was again the topic of the conversation.

“Your brother is so uptight!” Francis complained to Gilbert. “He's probably never even shared a bed!”

The German's eyebrow rose quickly. He paused to lick a finger. His eyes didn't leave the page. “The state of my affairs has nothing to do with that.”

“He is a virgin,” Gilbert whispered conspiratorially. His voice was a mock whisper, like those thrown across the stage in a Shakespeare production. There was nothing quiet about Gilbert. He was the sort that was well known for his bite but also had quite the bark.

It was not long until another chair was pulled to the table.

They were, of course, still discussing Ludwig's sexual appetites.

“I could teach you a few things, you know?” They would address him as if speaking to him, though it was more talking-at. “You just need to learn how to relax, loosen up. It would do you some good!”

“I doubt that.” Spoke the new member of the party.

“Ah, Antonio.” Ludwig looked up from his Goethe and cracked him a toothy smile.

“Oh, I see how it is!” The Prussian rose from his seat in a flurry. “You ignore me and say hello to this Spaniard!”

“How can I dislike the Spaniard?” The German laughed, the force of which bounced the medals on his chest, as if to spite Francis.

Antonio beamed at the three of them. “I came to give you my regards. I never did congratulate you on your victory.” He offered a hand to the German, who marked his page and took it.

“In front of me?” Francis languished, gnashing his teeth and ignoring the laughter from Gilbert.

“Don't be so sauer, Francis!” Gilbert clapped him, hard, on the shoulder and the Frenchman winced. He was still feeling that defeat.

“You just have to accept it.” The Spaniard supplied, eyes darting between the two of them. “And make up.”

The German looked up at that. “Make up,” he sputtered, “for what?”

“He humiliated me!” Francis moaned, sliding down in his seat in a way that threatened to send him to the floor.

“We beat you,” the Prussian corrected, “like a girl.”

“Don't be crude!” Francis retorted.

“Congratulate him on his victory, then! Stop acting like he's not there!”

“He's acting like I'm not here!” Francis replied.

“You're acting like I'm not here now.” The German butted in in a bored manner.

Francis huffed in response, feeling cornered. “You're supposed to be my friends!” He snapped at the Prussian and the Spaniard.

“We are,” the Spaniard furrowed his brow, “we just want you to move on.”

“Move on?” Francis continued in a shrill voice, “how am I supposed to 'move on' when that brute—no offense—wrecked everything?” By the time he finished the statement, he was breathless.

The German put his book aside. He straightened his uniform, lifting and lowering his head in a way that made his chin jut to his chest. “I will be offended. What you have said is offensive.”

“Good!”

The two others looked on, preparing to hold the other back. There wasn't, to be honest, much fight left in either of them. All wagers were betting on Ludwig being the winner.

“But I will have you know that I am not Bismarck, and I am not the State. Uncle, you have been here for a long time but you're still a dullard. When you address me, you address the People. I have never hated you,” he paused, then saw his expression and continued, “—no, I mean it. We are not so different. We like the same books, sometimes the same music.” He held up a hand as if to stop himself, then continued in a stammer. “What I mean to say is, I apologize for the sorry mess Bismarck has made of your State.”

Ludwig crossed his arms and seemed the picture of nervous energy. The Frenchman seemed shocked. He rose, then, and pulled his jacket about him. The German did as well, as though to follow him.

Francis offered him a hand, “I accept. How could I be mad with you so long?” 

As soon as the Ludwig took his hand, he pulled him in close to embrace him and planted a quick, hot kiss to his cheek.

Ludwig turned a shade of red that (Antonio would later remark) was comparable to a ripe tomato. 

“I told you he's a virgin!” Gilbert crowed.


End file.
